


ii. come away to the water.

by swoledor_clegainz



Series: arsan drabbles [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Missing Scene, pre-romantic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-21
Updated: 2018-02-21
Packaged: 2019-03-21 05:25:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13734072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/swoledor_clegainz/pseuds/swoledor_clegainz
Summary: He snatched it one-handed from the air and lowered it over his head, and where the man had sat only a steel dog remained, snarling at the fires.





	ii. come away to the water.

**ii. come away to the water**

There were no gods.

Only fire, and blood.

The camp where the northmen once feasted had become a battlefield - a slaughter, her brother's men the lambs. The ground swayed beneath her and her head pounded painfully, and in her ears she heard the distant clash of the battle; drums and deep thrumming warhorns, stallions trumpeting and breaking in the mud, the high metal screech of steel upon steel. Everything glinted orange and silver, slick in the fire and rain. Over it all, the wild, lonesome howling of a wolf cut promptly short.  _Grey Wind,_ she remembered. She could feel his anger, seething and writhing and clawing from within as if it were her own rage. 

_Here comes the King in the North! The King in the North! The King in the North!_

The Hound reigned in Stranger, who stamped in place and rolled in his eyes in fear and impatience. Spotting the horrific retinue parading from the gates in a river of steel and horses and torches, the Hound brought a hand to the back of Arya's head, pressing her close in an attempt to shield her gaze. 

"Look away, little wolf." 

She clung close to him, the fire reflecting in her wide, glassy eyes. 

_Here comes the King in the North! The King in the North! The King in the North!_

They sat him upon a handsome destrier of brown and bound him with hempen rope, without armor nor mail. Quarrels sprouted from his body like weeds. Atop his shoulders, the open maw of a wolf, sewn clumsily where his head had once been.  _Beautiful red hair, and Tully blue eyes._

_Here comes the King in the North! The King in the North! The King in the North!_

The Frey banner streamed behind as they galloped away into the night; and she wept as the grey Direwolf burned. 

* * *

 For an hour they rode, perhaps longer, until the glow of the fires ebbed and the cries of agony faded, silenced by the tall soldier pines that loomed all around. The Hound brought them to a trot, guiding the big black horse onto a craggy bank where a creek drifted lazily by, flowing like whispers over the rocks. 

With a gentle 'whoa' he dismounted, swinging one leg over and then the other. 

Arya was silent, sitting still as a statue, her hair hanging in a dark curtain about her face. Blood seeped from her head where he had knocked her with the flat of his blade to stop her from charging into the castle.  _He should not have._ _Better I had died there, than be alone now._ Yet she was not alone, not truly. 

"Here," she heard him rasp, more gentle than usual. 

She said nothing, and did not move. She felt strong hands slide around her middle. Resigned, she allowed him to pull her from the saddle, but found that her legs betrayed her. She sunk slowly to the ground, and began to weep once more. 

The Hound, unsure of what to do, knelt heavily before her. 

"Look here," he said. " _Look. Here._ " 

Her small frame shook with sobs. " _No!_ " 

He lowered his head to her level. "Listen to me, girl." 

She tried to push away, reeling and shouting. "NO! You could have gone in there, you could've - "

"And what?" he growled, startling her. "Do a little curtsy and ask them nicely to  _please not kill your fucking brother?_ " 

"Get off me! We have to go get my mother - maybe we can  _save her,_ maybe we can - " 

"Arya, girl, listen!" She screamed - for who, or what she could not say - and he grasped her arms, shaking her, bringing her back inch by inch to reality. "It's not your fault. There was nothing you could've -  _LOOK AT ME, GIRL._ There was nothing anyone could have done." 

They had all left her, every single one of them: Jaqen, Lord Beric and Thoros, Anguy, even Gendry and Hot Pie.  _The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives._ They were not her pack, packs didn't leave each other. There was a hole inside her now, steadily growing. A dark, hollow place, where once her father and mother and brothers lived, even her sister. Now they were gone, and her heart along with them. There was no one for her now, and no place for a little wolf.

Except an old, mangy dog. 

_The pack survives._

She let loose an anguished wail, collapsing against him and burying her nose into his mail. 

"It's not your fault," he repeated. "It's not your fault." 

The Hound lifted her into his arms with an unusual gentleness that was startling in so large of a man, and stood, crossing to the water's edge to wade slowly in. 

"The blood," he said quietly, by way of explanation. 

He lowered her into the water as it flowed languorously around them, fresh and cool and chilling in the night air. He had removed his gauntlets, and now brought water up in his dog's head helm to wash the crimson away. He scrubbed her face until it was almost raw, wincing when he saw the wound on the back of her head, and cleaned that as well. Arya stood placidly and let him bathe her, the water soaking through her roughspun clothing and seeping onto her skin. She felt dreamlike, and could feel nothing else but the cold. It seemed to anchor her, keep her from being swept away. She almost wished the river  _would_ sweep her away, carry her far, up and up and up until the water filled her lungs and the ocean claimed her body, until the fish nibbled at her skin and she turned to naught but bone.

Blood stained her hands; whose it was, she could not say. The Frey bannerman, or her own. Perhaps the Hound's. 

He washed them almost tenderly, or as tender as the Hound could ever be. Arya looked up at him, her lips parted. Her hands, so small, rested in his - so large and weathered. He stared down at them, silent, holding them almost reverently. 

_The pack survives._

It seemed an eternity they stood there, dog and wolf, together and apart. Then as all things, the spell was broken. 

"We must be gone."

He withdrew, and she almost shivered at the sudden cold his absence brought. 

 

 


End file.
